


someone you deserve

by lesbianbuckys



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Disabled Character, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Slow Burn, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2017-10-12
Packaged: 2019-01-16 10:41:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12341067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbianbuckys/pseuds/lesbianbuckys
Summary: Cassian grinned, “You, Bodhi Rook, are an utterly astonishing man. I never know what to expect from you.”“Have to keep you hanging around somehow, Cassian Andor,” he said with a wink, “Can’t have you getting bored of me, now can I?or, five times Bodhi surprised Cassian (and one time Cassian surprised Bodhi)





	someone you deserve

1.

 

Cassian was surprisingly at peace with his impending death.

 

He had been living on borrowed time for years. Death was an ever-present force in his line of work, a constant in a life of change - new bases, new missions, new targets. Dying, however, was solid, like a foreboding statue that occupied the corner of his mind. It lurked in the dark circles of the eyes of the Rebellion members, sick and grief-wracked over their fallen comrades. It slunk into the murky shadows of his memories, into the fragmented pieces of his parents. It struck with a vengeance, executed by his hand, the vehicle for its desperate hunger - a faceless stormtrooper, an Imperial-aligned diplomatic, an informant who was just too dangerous to be kept alive. Death kissed his eyes and held his hand on each mission, and finally let go upon his return, leaving with a promise that one day, it will be back to claim its debt.

 

Well, death had certainly collected its dues today.

 

Cassian dared to hope that some of them had survived, even though he knew it was a false dream. The odds were not kind to them - maybe Kaytoo was finally right about their chances of survival. It made dying a little easier, believing that the other Rebels, that Baze, Chirrut, and  _ Bodhi,  _ were alive, hoping death would not collect their own debts. It was a cold comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.

 

Even today, Cassian had cheated death too many times. He should’ve died by Krennic’s hand, from the seemingly endless fall into metal oblivion in the data room. He should’ve never made it to the top, his weak, broken body should’ve never been able to climb to the blinding white of the outside above, instead of letting him plummet to death. He should’ve died atop of the communications tower, from sustained injuries, from a keen-sighted TIE fighter, from a mistaken step that sent him over the edge, hurtling down to the Scarif beach below. 

 

He watched the faint, green glow building, emitted from the Death Star. Jyn stared at the light in nervous anticipation too, her trembling body pressed against his, a sorrowful, steadying presence that kept him afloat. She did not deserve to die with him -  _ Jyn, _ a whirlwind, an earthquake of fury and passion, sat shaking and sobbing silently in the sand, as waves gently kissed her ankles. She deserved  _ life,  _ a family, a home to return to, but something told him that she had cheated death one too many times as well. So they stayed in their desperate embrace, waiting for death to take back what was owed.

 

But death didn’t come. Hope did.

 

Jyn noticed it first. She slowly untangled herself from his arms as the wind began dancing in her hair, “Cassian! Look!”

 

The U-Wing flew jerkily, too unsteady and jolting to be an Imperial fighter pilot. For a second, Cassian wondered if it was an escaping Imperial personnel, a general who was not used to piloting, but as the door slowly descended, he saw a familiar, tall figure standing in view.

 

“Kay!” he shouted, as the ship hovered slightly above the ground. Kaytoo was  _ alive _ . He was certain the droid had met his end outside the data room, amidst blazing blaster-fire, but relief washed over him like a gentle, summer current. 

 

Jyn and Kaytoo helped his tired, limping body aboard the ship. Its metal hull was sure and strong under his weak leg, damaged in the fall from the data tower, a solidifying feeling that he was  _ safe, they were both safe.  _

 

They sat him across from Baze, cradling an unconscious Chirrut in his lap, mumbling what sounded like a prayer in Jedhan. The two Guardians were safe too. The thought lifted the cold dread that had settled in his stomach, relaxing his aching bones. There were a couple of surviving Rebel troops too, but not nearly the same amount that had entered Scarif with him.

 

“Who’s flying?” he heard Jyn call to nobody in particular.

 

“The defector,” replied Kaytoo,  _ Bodhi _ , “Although his injuries are preventing him from piloting at normal efficiency.”

 

“Give him some credit,” Jyn said, “He managed to rescue us.”

 

“There’s a 79% chance that he will fall unconscious at the controls, crashing the ship and killing us all.”

 

Cassian’s leg still pounded and screamed in hurt, but he managed to stand up and hobble to the controls (despite Jyn’s protests and Kay’s intoning - “If you move, your chances of risking sustained spinal injury increase by 12%”) to where Bodhi, alive, was staring intently through the glass windows, hands trembling. Hearing him approach, the pilot turned around, and Cassian sharply inhaled on instinct. It was like he was falling in the data room again. Bodhi. Alive. Survived.

 

But Bodhi was not well. Puckered, weeping skin, blackened by ash, crept up his neck to his hairline. His left arm hung limply by his side, wrapped in what looked like cloth from a jacket or shirt. His ear was so bloody, Cassian couldn’t see the skin and hair on the side of his head. He looked haggard and tired, like he was fighting against the pain with each second, each slight movement across the controls.

 

“Bodhi,” Cassian began, “You can’t fly anymore. Let me fly.”

 

He shook his head, albeit with tremendous agony, “I can do it. I can-”

 

“No, you can’t. You’ve done amazing,” and Cassian meant it. Bodhi, a cargo pilot, managed to pilot one-handed a damaged ship, rescue several surviving Rebels, manage a difficult landing to save him and Jyn, whilst seriously - if Cassian had to guess - mortally injured. A feat impossible for even the most experienced starfighter pilots. Cassian supposed he, like them all, was running on pure adrenaline, “but you need to rest. You’ll be no good to us if you die while flying.”

 

“No,” Bodhi sounded weak and hoarse as Cassian sat in the co-pilot’s seat next to him. His eyes began to droop shut, “I don’t need-”

 

It was too late. Bodhi slumped in his seat, finally letting his injuries overwhelm his pain-wracked body, just as Cassian began took over the controls. He didn’t let himself think about Bodhi’s wounds, his suffering and hurt. Not now. 

 

He stared through the window into the darkness of space, just as the green glow from the Death Star hit Scarif. 

 

Death would have to collect Cassian’s debt another day.

 

***

 

As it turns out, Bodhi should’ve died.

 

Cassian tries to hide the shock on his face, but he suspects he’s failing, as the medic lists Bodhi’s injuries - third-degree burns across his torso, second-degree burns up his shoulders and neck, two broken ribs, a ruptured eardrum, and fourth-degree burns on his left leg and arm, requiring an amputation of both.

 

He needed  _ prosthetics _ , for Force sake.

 

According to Baze, they had been preparing to leave, when a lone stormtrooper flung a grenade into the hull. Nobody moved as the piece of metal clinked, sitting in a stunned silence. None but Bodhi. So fast, nobody had registered what was happening. Bodhi scooped up the grenade, rushing out of the ship in a fury, but just as the grenade had left his hand, it detonated. 

 

He was unconscious now, lying in a bacta pod, just having undergone intensive surgery to replace his arm and leg, and fit a permanent hearing aid. Cassian took his hand - his metal one - and sighed. This man, this impossible man, was prepared to fly them back to Yavin as death breathed down his back and whispered in his ear. Cassian had been in the Rebellion for the better part of his life, but he had never known anybody with as much determination, as much courage, than Bodhi had shown on Scarif.

 

From across the bacta pod, Jyn, half asleep, eyed him curiously as he held Bodhi’s hand, but thankfully didn’t say anything. Instead, she took his other, his real one, still flesh with minor blisters dotting his worn skin. She had come out relatively unscathed, while Cassian had a reinforced spine, a metal bolt in his hip, and a slight limp to show for it. The pain was dulled now, but still there, beating away in his bones. Still, he was alive. Bodhi and Jyn were alive. His grip tightened on Bodhi’s metal fingers, and he thanked the Force for the first time in his life.

 

Bodhi woke up a week later, on the day Luke Skywalker blew up the Death Star. Shouts and joyous cries echoed down the hall, throughout the entire base and Cassian was glad Bodhi’s first sounds of his new life was of relief, of celebrating. 

 

Bodhi turned his head to the side, eyes blinking open and closed as they focused on his smile. He looked exhausted, his hair had to be shaved at odd angles in order to heal the burns, and his cheekbones were gaunt and hollow, but he returned the smile and Cassian was star-struck by how beautiful he looked.

 

_ Oh, that’s what this is, _ Cassian thought, but he didn’t dwell on that thought, not now.

 

“We did it,” he told Bodhi with a grin, “We all survived. They destroyed the Death Star.”

 

Bodhi paused for a moment before his cracked lips slipped into an even wider smile, and his croaky laughter echoed throughout the empty med-bay.

  
  


2.

 

By the fourth week of his medical rest, Cassian was jumping out of his skin. Draven refused to send him on even non-violent missions (“We cannot risk it and you are still recovering. No missions”) despite his protests that, it was only his leg that was sore, let him do a simple mission, but to no avail.

 

In the hopes of strengthening his weak leg and keep himself from boredom, Cassian walked around the base until he knew it like the back of his hand, remembered every nook and cranny, but after a while, his leg began to sharply throb and his mind wandered.

 

He spends a lot of time with Jyn in the first two weeks - Chirrut and Baze had left the Rebellion soon after they had healed (“We are too old for this fight,” Baze had said, “Our strengths do not lie here”), and Bodhi was in an eternal string of meetings, relaying to intelligence officers and generals any shred of information about Imperial tactics or shipping routes. When he is isn’t spilling Imperial secrets, he’s training, even though he is still injured and probably won’t be off rest for a while after the rest them. He’s desperate to go on active missions, do anything to fight back, and Cassian can only admire his vigour. 

 

Jyn is still on rest too (“I only have a broken collarbone, I don’t need rest”) which makes Cassian feel  _ slightly _ better, knowing she is as antsy as he is. There isn’t much to do for fun on base, so Cassian and Jyn both help where they can - repairing broken droids, taking inventory of the armoury, even Jyn helps train some of the new recruits in stealth tactics (she was a thief, after all). Sometimes, they just sit in silence, watching X-Wings leave and return to the hangar, a silence that never becomes awkward.

 

Cassian likes Jyn. He never thought he would, not when Draven told him he was to locate and accompany Galen Erso’s wayward, savage daughter. Somewhere between Scarif and now, they’ve slipped into a comfortable - Cassian dares to say - friendship (they were prepared to die together on that beach, after all. You don’t just walk away from that as acquaintances). Friendship. It’s foreign to him. He was known around base, sure, but it was only due to his rank and commitment, a poster boy of the Rebellion. Not because people actually liked him. It had never bothered him before; he had Kaytoo and he didn’t decide to fight the Empire as a social hobby. People didn’t care about Cassian; they cared about his skills, his kill-count. 

 

Jyn cared, however. And Bodhi. And the two Guardians. He could now count the number of genuine  _ friends  _ he had on one hand but it still felt warming. Like a part of Cassian he didn’t know was empty had been filled with light.

 

When the Rebellion higher-ups decide that Bodhi no longer has any useful information, he joins them, and his presence is a welcome change from the growing, inane familiarity that accompanies him and Jyn. He laughed easily at Jyn’s jokes, told over lunch in the noisy food hall. His voice was like wind chimes, lips split into a wide grin and,  _ stars _ Cassian wanted him to laugh more often. He wanted to be the one to make him laugh.

 

Jyn noticed. Of course she did. She eyed him over their meal, and gave him a knowing smirk, while Bodhi was still laughing and wiping at his eyes.

 

***

 

“So, Rook huh?”

 

“Shut up, Jyn.”

 

“Wouldn't have thought he was your type- hey, stop throwing things at me!”

 

***

 

Cassian noticed that Bodhi was always sketching. When Jyn and he would enter a room, finding Bodhi hunched over a pad of paper, wrist flicking lines across the white sheets, he would snap up, drawing the sketchpad close to his chest and shoving the pencil away. If Jyn noticed, she didn’t say anything about it. He supposed Bodhi had grown bored of his rest too - there were only so many games of Sarbacc one could play without losing their mind. Maybe Cassian needed a hobby like that too. The thought of Bodhi sketching rarely came across his mind, but every so often, he would notice the faint traces of lead, dusting Bodhi’s flesh hand.

 

Cassian threw himself onto Jyn’s bed with a heavy sigh. It was the end of week five of their recovery rest and he still had two more to go. Jyn, however, was medically cleared for missions, but she still had to undergo an assessment to determine if she was even in the right state of mind for active espionage. 

 

“How did you get Leia to date you?” Cassian asked despondently, staring up at the blank ceiling.

 

Jyn looked up from her position on the floor, messy hair tied up and reading a holonovel, “Is this what we’re doing now?” she dryly smirked, “Talking about our crushes...braiding each other's hair…”

 

“Jyn-”

 

“I asked her out, you nerf-herder,” she said with a roll of her eyes, “It’s not that complicated.”

 

Cassian didn’t say anything. He exhaled. The fluttering feeling in his chest was painful now, like a sharp prick of ice, trapped in his insides. He wanted to tell Jyn that Bodhi deserved better, a life of calm and steady love, quiet domesticity that Cassian could not give him, not here. He wasn’t good enough for Bodhi - but he wanted to be, a part of him wanted to steal a ship and leave, find a quiet planet, untouched by the Empire or the Rebellion, and  _ live.  _ With Bodhi.

 

But Cassian didn’t say that, he just covered his face with one of Jyn’s pillows and muffly screamed, ignoring her sniggering laughter.

 

***

 

Cassian found Bodhi outside, almost swallowed whole by the tall grass of Yavin, staring up at the clear, azure sky and letting the hot wind kiss his healing skin while he rested his sketchbook in his lap. His sleeves and pant-legs of his coveralls were rolled up, the black metal of his new limbs so shockingly stark in the pale green of the field, it was jarring. Bodhi had rejected the offer of fitting his new prosthetics with a fleshy, realistic skin, much to everyone’s surprise (“It still won’t be real,” Bodhi had answered, “My wounds belong to me, I can't hide it”).

 

Cassian didn’t want to disturb him, burst the suspended bubble he peacefully relaxed in, but Bodhi glanced up at him with a luminous beam. The scratchy grass prodded his skin as he sat, leaving pink welts in its wake. Bodhi turned back to his sketching, wrist lightly jerking across the paper.

 

It was a half-finished drawing of two women, from the shoulders up. The woman on the left had short-cropped hair, tight ringlets spiralling down like a waterfall, accentuating her high cheekbones. She was all sharp edges and sleek sides, her heavy-set, dark eyes glinted, and her skin split into light crows feet as she grinned. The other woman, still only partially drawn, rested her head on her companion’s shoulder, eyes squeezed tightly shut in laughter, faint dimples emerging on her pudgy cheeks. Her wispy, inky tresses were draped heavily over her collarbone, blowing messily in an imagined gust of wind. They looked blissed, peaceful. Like they existed outside the world, wrapped together in a haze of tranquillity.

 

Bodhi caught him staring, “My mothers. Talin,” he said, pointing to the short-haired woman on the left, “and Jez,” he tapped his pencil to the baby-faced woman, “It was before the Empire occupied Jedha. It’s one of the last happy memories I have of them. It was their anniversary, I think,” he shaded in the strands of hair around his Jez's face.

 

“They seemed happy,” Cassian commented. 

 

Bodhi paused, pencil stilling against the pad, “Mostly. After the Empire took control of Jedha, they still laughed and smiled, but it was forced. I think they were trying to make us feel better,” he explained, “Talin was killed by stormtroopers. On her way to work, she was a bartender at the cantina, they said she was ‘acting suspiciously’. Jez started getting sick after that…” he began to trail off, shoulders hunched and tense as he resumed sketching, this time shading light shadows on his mother’s collarbone.

 

“I’m sorry, Bodhi, really.” A voice in his mind that sounded suspiciously like Jyn’s echoed,  _ tell him. _

 

Bodhi shook his head, as if to say,  _ it’s fine. _ He didn’t ask about Cassian’s parents, which he was thankful for - he didn’t want to drag up the broken memories through his clouded mind again. There wasn’t much, just murky fragments, blurred around the edges and viewed through a fuzzy, sepia lens.The upturned lips of a smile. Kind, hazel eyes. The soft peal of laughter. Soaring into the air, free and flying, before being caught again by a set of comforting, muscular arms. He didn’t necessarily miss his parents (could you miss something you never really had?), but he missed the feeling of safety, comfort, _ love _ , that accompanied a family,

 

_ Tell Bodhi, _ the definitely-not-Jyn’s voice said,  _ tell him.  _

 

“C-Can I see some of your other drawings?” he asked.  _ Cassian Andor, you kriffing coward,  _ the voice cursed.

 

Bodhi gave him a curious look, but wordlessly handed him the sketchpad. There were many sketches of landscapes, grayscale horizons from what Cassian recognised as the view from the window of the food hall, but there were portraits of people too. Chirrut, leaning on his cane with his eternal, peaceful smile gracing his face. Luke, fast asleep in the cockpit of his X-Wing after a mission, like a child. Jyn, while training, blaster in hand and sporting a heavy, determined glare, a vision of vengeance and rage. Leia, ever regale, hunched over a table, tracing lines on a map with her finger. Kes Dameron, grinning widely as he cradled his newborn son on his shoulder, joy radiating through the monotone lead lines.

 

Then there was Cassian himself, head propped against his arm, eyes shut, but he was still grinning wildly, laughing through thin lips. Grey stubble dotted his cheeks, and loose curls fell into his eyes, crinkling at the sides. He looked...normal, untouched by the toll of war. He could imagine himself, a walking up as a civilian to a galaxy at peace, not marred by years of fighting and damage.

 

_ Is this how you see me?  _ Cassian wanted to ask,  _ so human, as if I am not a shell of a person? _

 

He inhaled deeply, handing the sketchbook back, “These are amazing, Bodhi. I didn’t know you sketched so well.”

 

Bodhi was blushing (and Cassian’s heart did a double-take) as he took the pad, flipping back to the almost-finished sketch of his mothers, “Oh, i-it’s just a hobby. Picked it up when I was in the Empire, there was a lot of waiting for cargo to arrive, a-and I was bored of reading the same, Empire-approved holonovels, it’s not l-like-”

 

“Bodhi, stop selling yourself short, you’ve got talent.”

 

He scoffed, cheeks flushed furiously crimson, and Cassian was suddenly aware of the pulsing pumps of blood, circulating his body, sending jolts of electricity down the metal in his spine. Bodhi shook his head, but gave him a tiny smile, “Thanks, Cassian.”

  
  


3.

 

Cassian was falling. Jyn’s climbing figure grew fainter as the air whistled by his ears and whipped his clothes. He heard her call his name, a desperate, harrowing cry. The world glided past in flashes of white, then black, then white again as he plummeted towards his death. Time stood frozen. Reality rippled like a stone, skimming across a murky pond. Jyn was still screaming his name as she turned into a grey-black dot in his vision. He couldn’t die here, not with his mission still incomplete. His stomach dropped, or maybe it was just the sensation of falling, but it shook his bones, an icy horror digging into his insides. He couldn’t die. He didn’t want to die. He was frozen in amber, forever reliving the heart-stopping plunge and the drop of falling.

 

The ground rushed closer,  _ oh Force,  _ it was close. So close he could make out the patterns in the metal grate. He was going to die here, he was going to die, not here, not now,  _ please I don’t want to die _ -

 

Cassian screamed as he jolted upright. The room was dark and cold, unfamiliar at first, but his vision cleared and the ghost of his dream faded. A dream. A  _ nightmare.  _ His quarters were eerily silent, deathly quiet save for the tempestuous drumming of his panicky heart and his laboured breathing, the echo of his dread still calling in his mind. It lingered, it left shockwaves in its wake, like an earthquake.

 

The holo next to his bed told him it was 2:41 standard time. Resigning himself to a sleepless night, Cassian pulled on a badly knitted, navy blue jumper (Baze had knitted one for all the Rogue One team members before he and Chirrut left). He threw the sheets off and began to walking aimlessly around the base. 

 

Even though it was the middle of the night, there was still movement around the base - sounds of X-Wings entering the main hangar, quiet conversations echoing from inside the group barracks, the occasional droid scurrying past. The enemy does not stop for the conventions of time, and neither does the Rebellion. They might’ve blown up the Death Star, but the Empire still hung omnisciently in the air, like a sinking, poisonous gas. It still terrorized even the furthest reaches of the galaxy, destroying homes, separating families. Besides, rumours had it that the Empire was building another Death Star - Cassian hoped not, but hope had done little to save Alderaan.

 

Instinctively, his tired feet carried him to the food hall, eerily empty in the night. Well, almost empty.

 

Bodhi sat on one of the old couches in the corner, curled tightly around himself, as if he was pushing the outside world away. Something fluttered in the depths of Cassian’s chest but he ignored it, he couldn’t deal that right now, not when the anxiety still plagued his weary body, like muscle memory. The hollow fear rippled in his bloodstream.

 

Bodhi bolted upright as he sat next to him, but visibly relaxed and sighed in relief after a second. “Can’t sleep?” Cassian asked, voice husky from sleep.

 

Bodhi shook his head, “Nightmares. You?”

 

He didn’t respond, only dragged a hand down his face, and exhaled deeply. Bodhi bumped his shoulder against Cassian’s and,  _ stars _ he was gone for this boy, “Wanna talk about it?”

 

“Not really, if that’s okay with you.”

 

Bodhi made an affirming sound, “Fair enough.”

  
  


***

 

The wind screamed in his ears, wailing with a harrowing screech like they were crying out for him. It was cold, up so high, and the air seemed too thin, although it could’ve been the anxiety choking up his throat. In any other circumstance, he would’ve found peace, staring out into the sapphire horizon, to the point where the sky kisses the sea and watching the waves climb their way up to the golden shores before retreating. A smattering of jewel-green trees dot the beaches below, tiny from up this high. Cassian appreciated the beauty of it all, before he was shaken out of his reverie. 

 

Krennic stands in front of him, blaster pointing directly at him while he dangles the Death Star plans in the air, over the edge of the communication tower, “It’s too late,  _ Captain,”  _ he spits the word like it’s contaminated, “You and your petty Rebellion are finished! You failed.”

 

The revelation of it all hits like like a blaster shot. It’s been for nothing. More than two decades of fighting, suffering and pain, years of sacrifice has amounted to this moment - a failed mission, a death-machine and a  _ long _ fall. Krennic smiles, a vile, smug grin that makes fury rise up in Cassian’s throat, as he drops the plans, hurtling towards the faraway ground below, and with it, any hope of saving the galaxy. 

 

He hears the blaster click, but it is not Krennic who fires the shot. It’s Bodhi. Standing in his place. Still bearing that same depraved smile. Cassian barely registers the shot to his side, not when a despairing hollowness wracks his aching body. 

 

“It’s over,” Bodhi laughs madly, “You’re nothing!”

 

Another shot lands, this time to his leg. Bodhi has morphed into Jyn now. Then into Chirrut, Draven, Baze, his mother. Faces begin to blur together, familiar and strange both at the same time. He’s stumbling dazedly backwards. Shots land into his body, but he doesn’t die. He wishes he would. Just so he didn’t have to hear the raving, poisonous cackling and watch the faces bleed together until they become one. His father shoots him in the shoulder, Mon Mothma hits him in the ribs. 

 

Cassian’s foot drops into thin air, and he slips off the platform, falling.  _ Again.  _ He’s always falling. As he plummets, he still hears that rabid, crazed laughter, ringing in his ears. He feels his heart claw its way into his throat and shudders as his blood turns to frozen mercury in his veins. The tower gets smaller. He vaguely notices that he’s screaming now, begging almost, repeating  _ no, please no,  _ like a mantra, a prayer on his sinning, silver tongue.  _ No! Help me, please- _

 

The sheets contort around his limbs as his eyes fly open. His throat is aching and he realises he must’ve been screaming in his sleep. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, cradling his thumping skull in his hands while his dizzy mind stops spinning. He stays like that, hands shaking and eyes squeezed shut, until the anxious heartbeats and echoing, maniacal laughter subsides. He doesn’t bother to check the time, the silence of the base is enough to let him know he should fall back asleep. Sleep is the last thing he wants right now, so he finds himself trudging to the food hall, unconsciously searching for a familiar figure.

 

Bodhi sits on the same couch. This time, he stares at some invisible point on the floor, while he cradles a steaming mug of tea in his hand (his human hand, Cassian notices) and has an ugly, patchwork blanket draped over his shoulders. It’s knitted, the squares are all different sizes and solely comprised of bright colours that clash together, almost blinding Cassian’s tired eyes. It’s lopsided and has small holes forming. Baze must’ve made it.

 

Bodhi looks up at Cassian as he sits down, giving him a weary smile. His hair is growing back, just passing his ears, but not long enough to tie it up (Cassian will probably short-circuit when it’s long again). Bodhi doesn’t ask if he’s had nightmares, the drying tear stains dotting his cheeks must tell all. Bodhi just stares him up and down, leaning back into the couch and brow furrowed in contemplation. Cassian hates feeling like this, so exposed, as if Bodhi can see through his scarred skin and into his equally scarred organs, into his mechanical, cold insides, cogs clicking were lungs should be.

 

An eon stretches on before Bodhi finally speaks, “You don’t have to say anything-”

 

“-Glad I have your permission.”

 

He thumps Cassian on the shoulder, but the smile is still etched onto his face, and Cassian’s heart sings a little bit, “but I can talk, if you want. I-I don’t...we could just… it doesn’t have to be about nightmares, b-but I thought-”

 

“No, go ahead,” he says, “Maybe it’ll help.”

 

Bodhi beckons him closer, throwing the  _ awful _ blanket over Cassian’s shoulder and maybe he hates himself a little bit at giddiness building in his chest.

 

So Bodhi talks. About his nightmares - about the Empire and the Death Star, about losing himself, his mind to the echoing pain of Bor Gullet, about his mothers, both dead, and his sisters, most likely dead, about losing his home and humanity to the Empire, about losing his limbs, and the ghostly muscle memory that haunts him at night.

 

It feels like all of Cassian's fears have been replayed back to him on a hologram, he feels raked over and empty, like his mind is projected for the world to see, picking apart his fears, his hopes to discern makes Cassian Andor tick. But he appreciates Bodhi for talking, for filling the empty void of silence between them. 

 

Bodhi takes a sip of his tea, spiced lemon, a traditional Jedhan brew, “Some days, I look at my body in the mirror and I feel more droid than human. Like I don’t feel real.”

 

His openness shocks Cassian, his insecurities and fear becoming stone as they tumble from his mouth. Bodhi had never seemed like a talkative person, hiding under the occasional stutter and placid, soothing voice.

 

His curiosity must show on his face, because Bodhi answers, “My therapist said that talking about trauma helps. It makes it a solid, physical object and not some looming presence in your life.”

 

Cassian is taken aback, “You have a therapist?”

 

He nods, “Rizida. She’s nice,” he takes another sip of his tea and tries to speak again, but he stops. He bites his lip (which Cassian definitely doesn’t notice, not at all) before looking back up at him and speaking again, “You need to talk someone, Cass,” his heart stops at the nickname and he wants Bodhi to call him that for the rest of his life, “It doesn't have to be me, or a therapist, but you need to let yourself be helped. You can’t do everything alone.”

 

Bodhi gives him a small smile. A small, sad smile, but it's enough to make Cassian breathless, “You don’t deserve to suffer like this.”

 

He turns over Bodhi’s words in his mind, struggling to think of what to say. _Nobody has ever made me feel this way,_ is one thought. _I’m terrified of this feeling, but I don’t want it to go away._ _You deserve more than me. I want you with every inch of my being._

 

Cassian chases away those thoughts, before they threaten to consume him, swallow him whole, so he settles on, “Thank you, Bodhi. Really, I’m feeling better now.”

 

“But you’ll think about what I said, right? You’ll talk to someone?” he asks, and his earnest tone is enough to make Cassian swoon.

 

He pauses before replying, “Yeah, I will.”

 

Bodhi looks pleased, content, and it’s a refreshing change from his constant, slightly anxious scowl and nervous exhales. He relaxes in the couch, sipping his tea while his eyes shut and his lips stretch into a grin.

 

***

 

Cassian’s hands are shaking. His heart hammers in his chest like a bird, trying to escape the cold cage of his ribs. He swallows thickly, mouth dry, and before he can change his mind, he rapts curtly on the door.

 

He swipes his sweaty palms on his trousers as the door opens. Rizida is a Twi’lek woman, perhaps a few years older than himself, she looks him with gentle and comforting, but still calculating eyes. 

 

“I-I’m, uh-” he begins, but she cuts him off.

 

“Cassian Andor. Yes, after the Scarif mission you’re quite famous on the base, you know,” her voice is low and sultry, like it’s struggling through sticky molasses, “What can I do for you, Captain?”

 

He inhales deeply, steeling himself, “I’d like to organise an appointment.”

  
  


4.

  
  


“Draven’s sending a rescue team tomorrow,” Cassian relayed, as he set down the comm-link, turning in the co-pilot’s chair, “They can’t risk it right now, with the Imperials crawling all over us. Unless you can repair the ship?” he asked.

 

Bodhi’s head emerged from the grate in the floor, partially pulling himself out to reach for one of the tools they found on-board, scattered across the ship’s floor. Cassian handed it to him as he sat on the floor, “Not likely,” he said with a despondent sigh, voice becoming slightly muffled as he slipped back beneath the deck, “I don’t have the proper tools to repair it fully. Besides, the fuse-drive needs completely replacing, and the nearest outpost is a day's walk. This ship wasn’t built to sustain heavy fire.”

 

Bodhi was right. The merchant cargo ship’s thin, metal walls trembled for the brief time spent in flight and violently jerked at each time the Imperial pilot’s shots landed. It was supposed to be a simple mission - meet the target on Tatooine, retrieve the intelligence and relay it back to the Rebellion. Nothing flashy. No blaster-fire. No deaths. Something to ease Bodhi into completing active missions. Of course it went horribly wrong.

 

Now, their target was dead, they had no way off Tatooine, and Imperial pilots were almost certainly scanning for their damaged, stolen ship. 

 

Cassian groaned, dragging a hand down his face, “We’ll just have to wait until tomorrow.”

 

“And hope the Empire doesn’t send a ground squad to locate us.”

 

“Thanks, Bodhi. Ever the optimist.”

 

That earned a light scoff from Bodhi as he climbed out of the deck and began packing away the toolkit. He pushed back the loose strands of his hair from his eyes, falling out of its loose braid, leaving faint grease marks on his chin. Before he could stop himself, Cassian automatically reached out a hand, gently rubbing the grease stain off his golden brown skin. He felt Bodhi’s quick pulse under the pad of his thumb, intoxicating, drumming a staccato rhythm that echoed through Cassian’s entire body. Bodhi didn’t move away, instead, he leaned into the touch. He was so acutely aware of Bodhi’s presence - chest rising and falling in time to Cassian’s own breathing, the flyaway hairs sticking to his clammy skin, the pulse of his throat as he swallowed, the way his cracked, dry lips were open partially, forming an ‘O’ shape. Cassian felt scraped raw, nerves exposed and blood burning. The electric air between them hung thick and heavy, dense, an unreal, suspended bubble which the outside world could not touch - it was just them. Nothing else mattered. The world could stop spinning, and it would not disturb them. 

 

Bodhi was leaning in closer,  _ so close, _ but Cassian dropped the hand from his face, the moment between them splintering like cracked glass. He could still feel the echoing thrum of Bodhi’s heartbeat, beating through his bones. He wanted that feeling back, the sensation of spiking electricity and breathing falling in sync, inhaling and exhaling as one breath, a symbiotic life.

 

Bodhi shook his head slightly, muttering something about  _ scraping up something to eat, _ before leaving Cassian to stare where he once sat, the memory of his soft skin and deep breathing ghosting across his palm.

 

***

 

Cassian watches two, bright suns dip into the sand skylines, replaced by a sky of deep violet and murky blue. The Tatooine badlands seem to stretch on forever, infinite, cracked earth and scorched, golden dirt as far as the eye can see, enveloping their ship in a stark emptiness, a blip in the vast monotony of the arid wastes. He is small, insignificant, as he shifts his gaze from the desert to the bleak void of space above, dotted with the pinprick lights of stars, one body in a galaxy full of lives, of harsh horizons and of thousands of suns.

 

He hears Bodhi before he sees him, the sound of his footsteps reverberating in the metal hull. He slumps in the chair next to Cassian, silently handing him what looked like rice, meat and seasoned flatbread, generously piled so it was almost spilling out of its bowl. His metal fingers brushed against Cassian’s, glad that it wasn’t his flesh hand - he didn’t think he would be able to take that, not with the electric echo of their earlier moment still stinging, like muscle memory.

 

“Thank Force we stole a merchant’s ship,” Bodhi joked airly, “I found a portable stove, some bread and hikari flakes in the hold so at least we’ve got something more edible than dried meat and protein bars for dinner.”

 

Cassian has never been able to cook. He could reheat whatever bland, packaged food was in his pack when he was on missions, but no amount of improvements and experimentations would alter the distinct plastic taste of emergency provisions. Years and years of living in the Rebellion has turned Cassian utilitarian - he didn’t mind the banal, stale meals that never quite seemed to cease the hunger lurking in his stomach. Comfort was irrelevant. What mattered was that he had enough strength to complete the mission.

 

Bodhi, Cassian realised as he ate his first spoonful of rice, could  _ cook  _ (of course he could, he was good at everything). The bowl warmed Cassian’s fingers, the scent of spice filling the ship with a hearty heat. He copied Bodhi’s movements, wrapping the rice in the flatbread and eating it before it could spill. 

 

“This has got to be one of the best meals I’ve eaten on a mission,” Cassian moaned as he ate another spoonful, “Which is not saying much but-”

 

Bodhi dismissed him with a wave of his hand, “My mother taught me to cook. Talin. Neera was awful, so when she started getting sick, a-and Talin was...well,” he stared into his dish, poking a bit of meat with his fork, “I started to cook for us.

 

“Well, it tastes amazing,” Cassian’s words choked up in his throat like cracked glass,  _ why did Bodhi have to be so kriffing honest,  _ “You are full of surprises, aren’t you, Rook?”

 

He smirked at him, the corner of his lips upturned, “Maybe I’ll cook for you again when we get back.”  _ Was Bodhi flirting?  _

 

Cassian was utterly screwed.

 

But he stifled the roaring, crashing waves in his stomach and calmly said, “I’d like that.”

  
  


5.

 

Something was wrong.

 

Cassian liked to think his instincts were sharp, what good was skill and blind luck if he walked unknowingly into an ambush? It’s what made him a good spy - he knew what split-second decision he had to make to keep himself alive, even for another minute. He knew the sinking in his gut was more reliable than any dossier, and he listened to the clenching of his spine when it stung, telling him to flee. Acting against a hunch would kill a lesser spy, so Cassian had always been grateful for his keen intuition. 

 

Until today.

 

Bodhi was supposed to be back from his reconnaissance mission - a simple fly-by, investigating if the rumours of the second Death Star were true. Cassian hated watching him leave, vanishing before he could even register it with a tight-lipped smile and a  _ “see you soon.”  _ His feelings were not important, Cassian had to remind himself, the bubbling in his chest and overwhelming thrumming of his bones wouldn’t help the galaxy, not if the Empire had another Death Star. Cassian didn’t want to think about that possibility, that their mission to Scarif might’ve only delayed the inevitable. 

 

Cassian found himself running to the war room against his better judgement, finding Bodhi’s superior officer, General Kalb, scrolling through a holo-pad, not even looking up as he entered, “I know what you are going to say, Captain Andor, and the answer is no.”

 

“But Admiral-”

 

She glanced up from the holo, fixing him with a calculating stare, “He is four hours late, Andor. You should know more than anyone that missions often don’t go as planned.”

 

“That’s why we should send someone to find him!”

 

“If Rook is in danger, then I can’t risk it, and if he’s not, then it would be a waste of time,” she cast her eyes back down to the holo.

 

“But he should’ve at least comm-ed us by now! He-”

 

Kalb sighed, her grey eyes softening, “I understand you are worried about your friend, but Rook is a great pilot - I didn’t promote him to Commander for the hell of it. He’ll be alright, Captain.”

 

It did not sooth the twitching sensation in his damaged hip, but he nodded, leaving with a half-hearted salute as Kalb’s lips drew into a thin line. Cassian prayed his instincts were wrong today.

 

***

 

Of course, Cassian was right. Just his luck.

 

Kalb had called him and several others into the war room at 0700 the next morning, her shoulders hunched and tense, a forlorn, troubled expression on her face that Cassian knew prefaced bad news. He’d been in the Rebellion for too long to expect anything different.

 

“We traced Commander Rook’s ship to a plateau on Naboo,” General Kalb was intoning, but her eyes kept flicking to Cassian, each glance brimming with sorrow, saying  _ I’m sorry.  _ A metallic taste filled his mouth, “We suspect he was gunned down by Imperial fighters during his mission.”

 

The air was heavy, a cloudy haze of fog hanging over their heads. He heard Leia exhale loudly behind him, while Kes wrapped an arm around Shara’s shoulders. Jyn just stared. Emotionless. Dispassionate. Tension stretched between them all, thin and paling, just waiting for it to snap.

 

“Are you sending a team to the crash-site?” Luke demands, a harsh edge to his voice, “Because I’ll volunteer.”

 

“Of course, Skywalker, but we don’t anticipate much success. If he survived the crash, then the Empire most likely has him.”

 

Next to him, Jyn is crying silently, still gazing ahead with glassy eyes, but tears are now rolling freely down her gaunt face. Leia rests a hand on her shoulder, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head as she begins to weep more violently, heavy sobs wracking her body. Cassian’s feels like he’s underwater - his clothes are too tight around his body, and the world shimmers and splinters, dense around him. He can’t breathe, can’t think,  _ Bodhi. _

 

He grabs Jyn’s hand, a steadying presence as he drowns, as he is struck by the unfairness of it all. This life. Bodhi should’ve left the Rebellion with the Guardians, lived in peace, safety, away from this fight. Away from him. It was unnecessarily cruel - Bodhi, captured back into the vice-like grip of the Empire.  _ If he even survived.  _ Part of Cassian wants him to have died, just so Bodhi would not have to know the feeling of returning back to the monochromatic prison from which he escaped once before, the vile irony of it. The metal in his hip begins to pound and he head burns.

 

He doesn’t remember seeing the war room evacuate, empty save him and Jyn, shiny tears still drying on her damp face, still clutching his hand for dear life. It’s almost like they are back on Scarif, trembling together as they waited for death to collect their debts.

 

Death had claimed its debt, but it wasn’t Cassian’s.

 

(He wishes it was his, wishes it with every fibre of his wretched soul.

 

He supposed Bodhi had been living on borrowed time since Scarif too.)

 

***

 

Jyn slept in Cassian’s room that night, contorted in his scratchy sheets and curled up in herself, dark hair spread across the pillow and knees tucked under her chin. Like this, he could imagine her as a child, small and confused, alone in the world. Its humanising, so incredible to see Jyn like this, a force of nature, as wild as a sea-storm, calm and placid by his side. Cassian was glad he met Jyn.

 

“Do you think he’s alive?” Jyn mumbled, muffled by the bedsheets.

 

Cassian gulped thickly, swallowing the bile rising in his throat. He didn’t answer, he only shifted his arm so it rested under Jyn’s head, throwing the other over her side and pulling her closer, her head gently pressed against his chest, the rise and fall of her breath ghosting across his torso. Her body was warm and solid, and he fisted his hands in the back of her shirt, clinging to something physical, his only tether to actuality. It didn’t seem real. He would wake and Bodhi would be sitting bleary-eyed in the food hall, hands clasped around a cup of tea and giving him a dazzling, yet sleepy smile.

 

“I never got to tell him,” Cassian says, his body trembling and voice just above a whisper, “that I…”

 

He can’t say it, the words gagging in his throat. Jyn just traces light circles on his arm. She lets him bury his face into her hair and weep, not caring that the tears roll on her skin and dampen her shirt.

 

***

 

“Hey, Cassian!” a voice calls for him, as he walks through the hallway in a daze. Luke’s hand grabs him by the shoulder, blond hair wind-swept and face red. He didn’t know Luke well, but he and Bodhi were close, from the irreversible bond all pilots seem to have to each other - Cassian didn’t get it, all the Rebel pilots seemed to have forged a connection, built through jumps into hyperspace and the thrill of flying.

 

“I thought you should know,” he explained, “we found the wreckage. No sign of Bodhi, but no signs of the Imperials either, so we don’t know if that’s a good or a bad thing,” Luke pulled a small holopad from his X-Wing flight-suit, placing it in his palm, “His comm was damaged, but we were able to salvage it. This was his last transmission.”

 

Pressing play, the holo glowed to life, as the tinny sounds of the recording filled the hallway,  _ “This is Commander Rook. I repeat, this is Commander Bodhi Rook. Do you come in, base?”  _ there's a crashing sound, faint through the audio, but he hears Bodhi curse,  _ “Ah, kriff it! Can anybody hear me? I’ve seen the Death Star! It’s true, it’s happening again! If anyone is listening, please respond!”  _ The audio stutters and he can hear the jolting of the ship,  _ “I don’t want to die. Tell Cassian Andor that I’m not going to die and I’m coming back to him. Tell him that I-” _

 

There’s a loud bang, and the recording stops. 

 

Cassian clutches the holo to his chest, ignoring Luke’s sympathetic look. Pity won’t bring Bodhi back. Luke sighs, “Everyone is debriefing in the war room right now, but I just...I thought you’d like to hear it.”

 

He nodded, staring at his feet and not daring to meet Luke’s eyes, “I can’t thank you, not for this but-”

 

“No, I get it,” he says, exhaling deeply. He pauses for a moment, before continuing, “You loved him, didn’t you?” ‘ _ Loved’ implies that I don’t anymore, _ Cassian thinks, but he nods silently, earning another pitying glance from Luke and a mumbled,  _ I’m sorry.  _

 

Luke leaves him standing in the hallway, still holding the holo as he slides down the wall, hugging his knees to his chest, and pressing replay.

 

***

 

Kes finds him like that, intently listening to Bodhi’s crackling voice  _ (“I don’t want to die. Tell Cassian Andor that I’m not going to die…”).  _ He sits next to him wordlessly, an unreadable expression on his face. Cassian doesn’t think about how ruthless the Force was, to let Bodhi sacrifice himself for two Death Stars.

 

Kes sighs, “I want to tell you not to worry, but I can never follow my own advice when Shara’s missions go wrong. I can’t imagine how  _ you’re  _ feeling right now. I’m so sorry-”

 

“-He’s not dead,” Cassian sharply insists, “He said he’s not going to die and he’s coming back.”  _ To me.  _

 

Kes gives him a disbelieving look but doesn’t say anything, the unspoken condolences hanging between them.

 

***

 

It’s been four days since Bodhi’s reconnaissance mission and Cassian doesn’t feel much of anything. He’s clouded in a murky haze, a dense fog weighing down his body. His muscles ache. His vision is blurry. Draven has taken him off missions at Rizida’s request ( _ “Just until you get back on your feet again, Cassian,”  _ she said gently, her low voice almost lulling him to sleep,  _ “Grieving is natural.” _

 

_ “I’m not grieving because he isn’t dead.”) _

 

He sits on the couch in the mess hall, like Bodhi once did late at night. Cassian has that awful knitted blanket around him, the scent of Bodhi still lingering as he pulled it up over his head, blocking out the pointed stares and pitying smiles. He doesn’t need sympathies, or apologies, or condolences. He needs a ship and an Imperial uniform, so he can go drag Bodhi from the Death Star himself, proving that yes, Bodhi is alive and no, Cassian was not in denial.

 

Force, he’s pathetic.

 

Suddenly, someone is shaking him, ripping the blanket off him and his eyes sting as he adjusts to the light. It’s Jyn, beaming for the first time in days. 

 

“He’s back!” Jyn shouts, “He only just arrived, in the med ward!”

 

“Who?”

 

“ _ Bodhi! _ He managed to survive! He stole a ship and-”

 

But Cassian is no longer listening to her, bolting across the food hall and in the familiar direction of the med bay, pushing past disgruntled droids and faceless Rebels, but he doesn’t care. All he can think about is  _ Bodhi, Bodhi, Bodhi, _ echoing through his mind. His chest rolls like white-churned waves in anticipation, blood drumming in a staccato beat. 

 

Bodhi sits upright in the med bay, legs swinging off the edge of the bed, beautifully alive. Cassian heart lurches into his throat. He has a split lip and a scar down his cheek, the loose strands of hair around the side of his face singed and soot-covered. His prosthetic arm has been damaged, completely missing from the elbow down, metal and wires exposed and sparking. He grins at Cassian, a luminous smile that steadies his trembling legs.

 

“Can you believe I got my arm blown off again?” Bodhi jokes and the familiar pang in his heart returns. Force, he loved this man.

 

“You kept your promise. You came back,” is all Cassian can say.

 

He smiles brighter and his voice is so soft when he speaks, “Of course I did. I’ll always come back to you, Cass.”  _ That nickname.  _ Cassian feels like laughing and crying at the same time, like his nerves are both aflame and frozen. There's a storm raging in his lungs, a hurricane dancing in his bloodstream. The drone of the med bay fades. All he senses is the electricity firing between them, a circuit of lighting. They are two insects, forever entombed in this amber moment.

 

“You know,” Bodhi started, “When I was under attack, all I could think about was how when I crawled back to you, the first thing I would do is this…”

 

He raises his hand to Cassian’s cheek, soft and beating, radiating warmth as his racing heartbeats calmed. He was here. Alive. He came back. To him. He smelt like ash and his eyes were wild in adrenaline, and Cassian’s breath still choked him as Bodhi inched closer, lightly pressing his chapped lips against Cassian’s.

 

It felt like coming home. Dizzying elation and ecstatic peace. Cassian kissed back, harder, swallowing the intoxicating rush of his gasp and revelling in the sensation of each point of contact - Bodhi’s hand on his face, Cassian’s arm around a set of strong shoulders, their knees, bumping together. He carded his fingers through Bodhi’s hair, drinking the quiet moan he received in reply. Cassian wanted to hear that sound, each day for the rest of his life. He wanted to feel Bodhi’s pulse under his fingertips, their heartbeats slowing together as one. He wanted to chase the other man’s mouth with his own and live off the sweet taste of his lips forever.

 

He wanted, craved, hungered, like a starving man, a slave to his desire, greedily  _ taking  _ and  _ taking _ what was laid in front of him. Bodhi pulled away, red-kissed lips in an upturned smile as he laughed, softly chiming in his ears.

 

Cassian grinned, “You, Bodhi Rook, are an utterly astonishing man. I never know what to expect from you.”

 

“Have to keep you hanging around somehow, Cassian Andor,” he said with a wink, “Can’t have you getting bored of me, now can I?

 

He leaned in closer, mumbling against Bodhi’s mouth, as he kissed him again, “You don’t have to worry about that. I’m not going anywhere.”

 

+1.

 

It doesn’t feel real. It’s a dream. A beautiful dream, one which Bodhi will wake up from to the sounds of alarms and the intoning command  _ “Rogue Squadron, to your stations,” _ the tranquillity dissipating in the dazed, shattering confusion. There’ll be another mission, another objective, another threat to destroy, another battle as the dread races from one end of his body to the other, hoping that the Force wills him to live another day. Peacetime feels like a faraway concept, foreign, a vague promise whispered in grieving eyes and trembling hands -  _ “We do this for peace.”  _

 

But right now, as Cassian spins around a giggling Poe on his shoulders, life feels real to Bodhi.

 

Shara and Leia sit next to him, relaxed under the shade of the Force tree, basking in the calmness it seemed to radiate, the Life Day revelries clamouring behind them. Poe has his arms outstretched making  _ pew pew pew  _ sounds while Cassian keeps the boy’s game going (“Oh no, Commander! The Imperials have us routed, what are we going to do?”). Bodhi is only human, of course his heart melts, just the tiniest bit, at the sheer ridiculousness of it.

 

Captain Cassian Andor. Decorated Rebellion spy. Ruthless assassin.

Great with kids.

 

“You really lucked out with that one,” Shara says, eyes relaxing shut, vocalising his own thoughts.

 

Bodhi hums as the sunlight warms his face, “I know.”

 

The war was over, it had been for years. The Empire laid in ashes, the skeletal bodies of its old star-cruisers and the odd dying diplomat to show for their merciless existence, living on only in the memories of the galaxy’s survivors. Bodhi’s glad that Poe’s recollection of the Empire is murky, shielded by the vagueness of youth - it will be something that is told to him, not lived. He will grow up, loved, in peacetime, unspoiled by the omniscient anxiety of war.

 

It was much more than he had.

 

He had fought in the Battle of Endor. He had watched the second Death Star explode in a fantastic, blinding ball of light, but still, in the dark recesses of Bodhi’s mind, he could not shake the fear that the Empire would shatter their harmony, like thinning glass, splintering into a thousand shards underfoot. It would take Bodhi and Cassian’s retired, civilian dream on Yavin IV, their ordinary jobs and quite, easy lifestyle, from under them - they were not just surviving anymore, they were living for the first time in years, and the smoking remnants of the Empire, lurking in the deepest rims of the galaxy, would steal it again.

 

But in this moment, it was hard to worry, not with chittering laughter filling his ears, Cassian grinning as his game with Poe continued (“All squadrons! Cover me!”), and the Force tree hummed in his bones, right down into the clouded, tumultuous depths of his soul.

 

***

 

Night time falls, yet the Life Day celebrations continue, but with louder, raucous laughter now as the alcohol slightly tints the festivities, after the children are put to bed (much to Poe’s disdain - “C’mon, little Commander,” Cassian had grunted, picking him up easily and heading back to the Dameron’s house, “We can’t have you falling asleep in the cockpit, now can we?”)

 

The sky is dotted with stars, like holes poked in the blanket of space. Bodhi imagines the same celebration echoing across the whole galaxy, a collective cheer at the remembrance of their freedom, that they no longer lived with shadows breathing down their necks. He breathes a sigh of relief, the warming light of safety sinking in his stomach. Sure, he missed the thrill of an X-Wing taking off, the gut-dropping jump into hyperdrive, but he would not trade the feeling of waking up late, the monotony of normalcy, and the soft ghosting of Cassian’s breath as he slept beside him.

 

They still had nightmares. Cassian still had to be shaken awake some nights, head between his knees as the echoing muscle memory of falling faded. Bodhi still woke up, anxieties crawling across his skin at the unfamiliarity of their room, begging Cassian to  _ take me to Saw Gerrera! I have a message for the Rebellion, please! The galaxy is in danger! _

 

But the nightmares were less frequent as time ticked on, ever surely. The visceral, heightened senses of unreality became dulled. Their scars faded, once bright-pink and tender, now a fading white mark on their skin. Bodhi no longer dry-heaved at the sight of his metal limbs, now leaving his untouched gloves stuffed in his drawer, and letting Cassian kiss the point where his flesh shoulder met black, cold alloy. He felt a sort of dissenting pride at the thought that the Empire had not been able to break either of them.

 

Cassian drops to the ground next to him, movements looser from the Corellian brandy. Bodhi loved seeing him relaxed. Over the past few years, the tension in his body had slowly melted, like snow under the hot kiss of springtime, “Leia just asked me to join the New Republic army.  _ Again,”  _ he sighs, “She said she’d make me a general.”

 

Bodhi sits partially upright, head resting on the side of his arm, “What did you say?”

 

“The same thing I tell her every time she asks - that my fight is over, I’ve seen enough war for a lifetime.”

 

Bodhi snorts, curious as to whose insistence will win out in the end. Cassian leans against his shoulder, tracing light shapes on the back of his hand before lacing their fingers together, kissing his knuckles.

 

“I never thought I’d have this,” Cassian says quietly, staring at their conjoined hands, “I thought I would die before I saw peace, so I never let myself hope. Force, even now I still think that my holo is going to light up and I’ll be sent to some backwater planet,” he looks to the celebrations behind them, a soft smile gracing his face, “I never planned on having a home, or a family.”

 

Bodhi raises a shaking palm to cup his face, softer now as the memories of war dissolve in time, “And now I have both,” Cassian continues, voice barely a whisper, “With you.”

 

Bodhi presses a gentle kiss to the other man’s lips, ghostly tender, like too much pressure will fracture him, turning into crystal-glinting shards in his hands. When he first met Cassian, all he saw was raging righteous fury, a wildfire that disintegrated all in its path into smouldering, ashen embers. Now, he was the placid waves, sapphire-blue, sparkling in the tame summer sun, slowly creeping up onto saffron-coloured sands. He was exposed. Fragile. Open. A locked box emptied for the first time. Bodhi’s his hand slightly, nimble fingers curling into the short hairs at the back of his neck.

 

Cassian’s throat pulses as exhales, “Marry me.”

 

Bodhi’s breathing stills and his heart shudders quiet, and he almost thinks he imagined it, until Cassian repeats it, “Marry me, Bodhi Rook.”

 

“Well,” he says after a moment, voice shaking while he speaks, “I was not expecting that.”

It is not a question, nor is it a commandment. An invitation. An offer of something permanent and secure. A lifetime of lazy mornings and warm embraces, tired smiles, mouth-splitting grins and the inevitable silvery-sheen of hair. He imagines it, a golden aura flittering around the edges of his vision. Cassian is biting his lip in anticipation, a hand resting on Bodhi’s hip and the other pushing strands of loose curls from his eyes.

 

Bodi grins against his lips, “Of course, you kriffing idiot.”

 

Cassian’s smile is blinding as he laughs, surging forward to kiss him again, tangling his hands in his hair as they fall against the grass.

 

Bodhi knows the future is bright.

**Author's Note:**

> so this was basically just all of my bodhi/cassian headcanons, pure self-indulgence. its also literally double the length that i originally intended it to be
> 
> you will have to pry disabled bodhi from my cold, dead, gay hands
> 
> kudos, comment n stuff u know the drill
> 
> just in case you were confused, Bodhi surprised Cassian by:  
> 1: surviving, and piloting the ship while injuried  
> 2: sketching  
> 3: being honest / comforting  
> 4: cooking  
> 5: returning back to him / loving him  
> +1: Cassian proposing


End file.
